Work Text:
"How you feeling, Satomi-kun?" Kyouji says it like he's checking up on a little kid, the champ or kiddo at the end of the sentence hastily papered over with Satomi's name.
"Bad," Satomi snaps. It's half-true. Satomi can tell he's gonna want to crawl into a hole and never come out once this stuff wears off, but the embarrassment and the anger are both strangely muted for now; more than anything else, he's pathetically grateful the burning, marrow-deep itch has receded, soothed away by the touch of Kyouji's body with the same instant relief as lotion on a sunburn.
Kyouji makes a noise of vague sympathy, only audible over the rushing air conditioner because of how close they are. Tucked together in the back seat of the Century, curtains drawn against the July sun, Satomi scooped sideways into Kyouji's lap. If someone peeked through the windshield they'd probably think—
Satomi flushes, presses his lips together. It's really not—like that.
"Too bad," Kyouji sighs, and Satomi flinches. "I can't afford to be missing practice." Despite the feeble attempt at a joke, he doesn't seem to find the situation nearly as hilarious as Satomi had expected him to; he hasn't laughed once, or even offered to sing Satomi a cringey lullaby. But he's not acting embarrassed, either. Or annoyed. Or—suggestive. Or anything at all, really. His ribcage expands and contracts with his calm, steady breathing; his heartbeat thumps away, unhurried, beneath Satomi's ear. He's got one hand on Satomi's waist and one on Satomi's bent knee, holding him with the sort of absentminded indulgence with which you might rest a hand on a sleeping dog.
Bland, chaste. Uncommitted. Like there's nothing remarkable about any of this.
It makes Satomi clench his jaw in irritation, makes the itch start gnawing away beneath his skin again. He burrows into Kyouji's chest, shoving his arms beneath Kyouji's unbuttoned jacket and wedging them between the seat and Kyouji's back in the world's most awkwardly smushed, simmeringly resentful hug.
Kyouji squirms, breath catching. "Careful," he says, with a huffing exhale that could almost be a laugh.
Satomi pauses, the tip of his nose bumping into Kyouji's pulse point. He's annoyed by his sudden realization that Kyouji smells nice, and even more annoyed to find that the faint trace of cigarette smoke has, at some point in the last two months, gone from gross to gross and comforting. "Are you ticklish?"
"Feels more like getting attacked by a bunch of sticks." The hand on his waist moves slightly, giving him an exploratory prod. "Where d'you put all that fried rice, huh?"
There's a lot he could say to that. Don't make fun of me or I'm in a growth spurt or you only buy me food twice a week or just shut up. Instead he grits his teeth and butts his head up beneath Kyouji's chin, squishing them together as uncomfortably as possible because Kyouji won't take the hint and do it himself. Do it right.
Kyouji laughs. A real laugh this time, not as loud or obnoxious as usual but still loud enough to make Satomi flinch again, make his skin prickle and his heart crawl up into his throat. Satomi can feel Kyouji try to look down and fail because Satomi's head is crammed beneath his jaw. His hand leaves Satomi's leg and Satomi's heart skips, thinking for a second he's going to finally—but he just skims dragonfly-light across Satomi's cheek and taps a finger against the arm of Satomi's skewed glasses. "Want me to take these?"
Oh. The metal is probably poking him. "Okay."
He slips them off Satomi's face and leans forward to set them on the console between the Century's front seats. His body presses harder into Satomi with the movement, folding him up in Kyouji's lap. A breathless whining sound escapes Satomi, and they both freeze. Satomi swallows, hoping Kyouji will ignore it. Hoping he'll cling to him harder. Press him down and crowd over him, crush him into the leather seat— Satomi shivers, his socked toes curling against Kyouji's thigh.
Kyouji sits back slowly, pats Satomi's back with one broad palm. "It's all right," he says, sounding like he almost believes it.
"I know," Satomi mutters, squirming. His head feels like it's full of fluff, fuzz, prickly wool. Crackling with static electricity. He wants Kyouji to wrap him up in those big hands and squeeze him until his stuffing comes out. "Kyouji-san—"
"Mmmm?" Kyouji's face is close enough that when Satomi tips his head back to glare he can see him almost perfectly, even without his glasses. In the dimness of the shadowy backseat, the familiar gleam in his black eyes has settled into a warm campfire glow. "What's up?"
…Well. Maybe it is like that. A little.
Satomi leans up, looping his arms around Kyouji's neck this time. Itchy heat creeps along his spine, blazes in his face. "If you really don't want to lose the contest," he mumbles into the air next to Kyouji's ear, "you need to get serious. Pick a song and commit to it. No more fooling around."
Kyouji is still and silent for a moment, his fingers fidgeting with one of Satomi's belt loops. Then he snorts. "Of course, sensei." Those hands, moving slow, searing through the fabric of Satomi's shirt and school trousers. "I can't let you down, mm? And," his voice drops into a teasing lilt, a trace of his familiar obnoxiousness finally returning, "I don't wanna get punished."
And before Satomi can think of a cutting reply, he finally gets what he wants: Kyouji hugging him back. Still stupidly cautious, like he's prepared for Satomi to shove him away and bolt for it, but — yes — he hikes Satomi up in his arms, shifts their combined weight so Satomi is half-lying on him, and squeezes.
Another, even more embarrassing sound makes its way out of Satomi's mouth, but he barely registers it past the dizzying rush of relief at being held onto like this. He shivers, his vision going hazy, fingers clenching in Kyouji's jacket. Kyouji, miraculously, still doesn't make fun of him. He rubs Satomi's back again, slow and careful. Slides his palm up to cradle the back of Satomi's head, tip him so that he can—
His mouth is soft against Satomi's forehead. His cheek. The bridge of his nose, and the space to either side of it where the nosepads of his glasses usually sit. Satomi sighs, skin buzzing with something hotter and even more all-consuming than that infernal itch, and closes his eyes.